


The Boy Who Ran

by Mehofkirkwall



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Harry Potter and the no good very bad life, Listen Harry has a bitter slytherin in his memories, aka harry has a horrible home life etc, and they [i] refuse to be quiet, so this'll be fun
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-04-17 18:46:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14195367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mehofkirkwall/pseuds/Mehofkirkwall
Summary: Harry Potter knows things he shouldn't, and that's going to get him into more trouble than he was originally going to be in.---I wrote this fic based on the following prompt:[Imagine that you show up in your favorite character’s universe, only for them to be missing. You soon realize that you are in fact your favorite character and must fulfill their role.]I picked Harry and I had fun.





	1. Hello

**Author's Note:**

> Harry is a lot kinder than i am, because i'm as bitter as 79 limes concentrated down into essence and mixed with venom of some kind.

Hello.

My name is Harry Potter, I was the boy under the stairs. Only, I didn’t stay there.

I was supposed to. I don’t do many of the things I’m supposed to.

My aunt Petunia and uncle Vernon would have preferred if I stayed where I was told, if I flinched when they threatened to hit me, if I kept my head down and didn’t speak up in school so no one noticed me.

They would prefer, in all honesty, that I did not exist. That my parents hadn’t died when they did, or even if they had, that someone else would have been chosen to take me in. That the dreary Tuesday night I appeared in their lives had never happened-- not because of something so foreign to them as compassion for my parents, but because they quite frankly wished we all hadn’t existed in the first place.

There’s something else, too, you know. I know something they, or more specifically, something they wish they didn’t know.

I am Harry Potter, the boy who lived.

I am the infant, now growing, who killed the greatest threat to Wizarding kind aside of it’s own overconfidence and ignorance.

I am the boy with the lightening scar on my face and wild hair on my head, with bright eyes and dark skin that highlights the difference between myself and the Dursleys. There’s more to me, a lot more, but not to them. Not to the other children at school that laughed at the hand-me-downs I wore, or the teachers who commented in surprise at my high marks when I was actually paying attention.

Most importantly, or so I considered it at the moment, I am the ten year old boy that wanders the neighborhood trying to befriend stray cats. There are three or four that come and go, but one shows up occasionally to visit Miss Figg. It always seems to check if someone is watching. I don’t know if she’s seen me see her, but I imagine she has.

That day, I was supposed to be working at straightening Figg’s garden, but I was much more interested in watching the cat watch me. It was watching from the garden wall, stretched out as I pulled weeds and shook dirt off of the plants. If I had known less about cats, I would have thought nothing of how the same tabby-- little black lines under the eyes and intelligence therein-- sat on the wall every day I was there. How it often turned up on the sidewalk to watch me work in aunt Petunia’s flowerbed.

That day, I had decided, was going to be the first gamble I’d take in the grand adventure that was the life of Harry James Potter.

“I don’t much like it here, you know.” I was careful to keep my voice in the tone of idle chatting. As if I was a normal boy chatting with the plants and a cat, as you do. “Not that I can go anywhere else while aunt Petunia is busy. They beat me last time I tried to walk to the park on my own. Do you think that’s normal? Think it happens in other families? I suppose it’s probably not. Normal, I mean. Dudley never gets that. I must just be _special_. I get the _special_ treatment.”

The cat’s tail flipped heavily back and forth, audibly smacking the wall, eyes narrow. I hid my smile behind a schooled expression of focus while I gardened, lips pursed as I worked diligently. The cat was gone when I next looked up, and I hoped devoutly that her absence meant that I’d be delivered from the house soon.

You see, I know things that I shouldn’t. A whole lifetime of things, and to tell the truth-- it was enough to make me ill on occasion. A flash of memory through the green light that gave me my scar, of a different life, a different person. The more I tried to remember, the more my head would hurt, and the angrier I would eventually become at my situation. The things my supposed family was doing to me, when they were ostensibly supposed to be giving me a normal life. The pain and suffering was enough to be angry at, yes, but context validated my feelings on the matter. If all I had known was the abuse and mistreatment, I wouldn’t be aware of how to respond. How to plan my escape.

But I know things I shouldn’t, and that would either save or condemn me in the end.

* * *

“Up! Get up! Now!”

There was a certain comparison to be made between aunt Petunia’s shrieking and what I had imagined a harpy would sound like. Primarily, as I groaned into wakening, the ability to give me an unending reason to be in a poor mood. She rapped sternly at the door again, and I tried mightily not to say something extremely rude.

“Up!” Good lord did this woman scream her words. I heard her footsteps leave the door, enter the kitchen, futz around with something and head back in my direction. For my part, I was trying to disentangle from the extra fabric of my shirt that had wrapped itself around my while I slept. Wearing Dudley’s hand-me-downs often meant that I’d find myself in a makeshift straight jacket after a particularly rough sleep. That night had been a familiar dream about giant motorcycles. I knew, in a fashion, that I recognized the scene, but my brain was loath to explore it. Trying to think back too far did that; a splitting headache and sweating was the most I usually got out of trying to remember anything that didn’t come easily. Honestly, about the time Petunia’s footsteps stopped in front of my door again, all I wanted in life was for her to not speak ever again.

“Are you up yet?” She sounded approximately five seconds from just opening the door and hauling me out by my hair. Not unusual, honestly, but I wasn’t really in the mood for it.

“Coming!” I pushed the door open, half wishing it whacked into her bony knees, and swore internally when it didn’t. Another day, I promised myself. One day. “What did you want me to do, aunt Petunia?”

“Get a move on!” She snapped her fingers and pointed to the kitchen. “I want you to look after the bacon, and don’t you _dare_ burn it! I want everything perfect for Duddy’s birthday!”

“Yes, ma’am.” I trudged to the kitchen, sparing a particularly bitter glance at the mound of presents on the table. Dudley didn’t strictly need all that crap, but he burned through possessions so quickly he felt like he deserved them. At some point I had told him if he wasn’t such a clumsy bastard, he’d have better luck. The black eye and split lip had been worth it. If anything, I mused to myself as I prodded the bacon with a spatula, I could steal the perfectly wrapped racing bike leaned up against the table. The oaf couldn’t catch me on foot, let alone on a bike.

The bacon was nearly ready to flip when the tell-tale sounds of Vernon plodding down the stairs and down the hallways echoed around the house. To be fair, he probably only sounded that way to me; I was the one who had to be aware of where the others were if I wanted to eat at any point during the day. Not that I got much down without them noticing; I had the occasional fantasy of not being a short, thin twig of a boy. They were, I lamented, likely to stay as fantasy if the Dursley’s had their way.

“Morning Petunia, dear.” Vernon, already ready to go to his job at the drill factory, greeted his wife and then glared daggers into the back of my head. That, and having his face look like the ass of a baboon in heat were among his many talents. “You, comb your hair!”

I felt the desire to tell him it wouldn’t make a difference, or that his ongoing war against my hair was futile, but I rather didn’t want to make him angry while a hot pan was within reach.

I had gotten rather good at cooking whatever Aunt Petunia demanded of me, though bacon and eggs were always fun. I never did get used to the popping of the fat in the pan, but it was always funny to see Dudley jump in surprise if he hadn’t been paying attention. Which he hardly ever was, past the point of demanding I cook faster. Which, I tried to explain, didn’t work with physics. I generally got a smacking for ‘talking weird’.

Speaking of the giant prick himself, he’d come downstairs and started counting his presents.

I got the food on the table as he started reaching the end, and I promptly wolfed down the hot food. The burning sensation was worth it, I felt, in comparison to possibly eating off the floor should he have a hiss-fit.

“There’s two less than last year!”

Yep, good job me. I quickly took my plate to the sink and started washing it, trying to keep my head down. To be honest, once I’d eaten I didn’t really care what he’d do, or what was said. They were his baubles to break and his parents were the ones that spent the money.

I still had to watch him unwrap things and pretend I was jealous; I was to an extent but not to the point he’d be satisfied with. While I was putting my acting skills to use, the phone rang. After leaving the room to answer it, Petunia returned and relayed that Figg had broken her leg.

I couldn’t imagine what in the world the old woman could possibly have been doing that caused a broken leg, honestly. She was the kind of old woman that had photo books of all her cats, old and new, and ate a healthy amount of boiled cabbage. The opportunist in me always took advantage of the stale cookies she offered, and I actually rather enjoyed her cabbage soup recipe. Granted, this was partially because I had little else to eat for the most part, and partially because I was the kind of person who enjoyed their vegetables. I was also the kind of person to nod sympathetically while she waxed poetic about her late cats, telling me about all the little quirks each one had. I was sorely tempted to offer to go over anyway, to help her out-- it wasn’t as if she had many people visiting besides myself, and with the reduced mobility, she could probably use a hand.

That all being said, I also devoutly wished to ruin Dudley’s day.

Even while he was wailing that I would ruin everything, and honestly he wasn’t far off if I had my way. If we lived in a fair and just world, at any rate. The Dursley’s were looking at me like I planned this while I was planning which part of the zoo I was going to spend the most time at. Even if things went a little off course, the idea of finally being able to go somewhere and look at things without the exhaustion of having to clean everything made me happy.

Granted, this meant that I had to deal with Piers, one of Dudley’s lackeys that looked rather like a rat with mange. I wasn’t afraid of them, so much as concerned what these horrible human beings were going to do to the zoo animals.

Before we left, Vernon pulled me aside and very harshly informed me that if I did anything to ruin this trip, he would lock me away till Christmas. I felt this was a bit much, if only because I would likely be dead and rotting by that point.

Oh, what a fantasy for him I'm _sure_.


	2. Bilingual Lizards and Bafoons

In all honesty the trip to the zoo had blindsided me in terms of actionable opportunity and it wasn’t until I was seated in the back of the family car that it struck me that I did in fact have an _opportunity_ here. Beyond the scope of enjoying the day, I mean.

The strange, dream-like memory of speaking to a snake had taken up my mind a few times in the last couple months, nearly as much as the dream about flying motorcycles. It all began to click into place as I sat wedged into the car between the other boys. I grinned to myself, watching cars pass ours, and thought about how it would sound, to talk to a snake.

Would it be as much of a harsh hiss that drifted up in the back of my mind, pulled from some space too far back to think about? Or would it be a more breathy, gentle sound; a soft rush of air over the human tongue imitating a hiss. Perhaps the idea that there were exaggerated ‘S’ sounds was simply a mental artifact from the few times I had sneaked over to watch Dudley’s cartoons through the window. He had terrible taste in entertainment, but the mental image of a snake speaking like a cartoon was much too good to let go of.

I had mostly tuned out Vernon droning on about how the banks were crooked, how I was a nuisance, how the city council was ineffective, how I ruined everything, how his boss was incompetent, and how I imposed on everything. I had the feeling that, should I not have existed, he would be silent a lot longer. Maybe he’d have nothing but utterly boring conversation to the point even his vocal cords would fall asleep and stop working.

What a fantasy.

Currently, though, he had began complaining about hoodlums on their motorcycles as one zipped by, and the mental image of bothering him warred with the desire not to get into a car accident. Perhaps editing myself just a touch would be a good way to get both things accomplished, I reasoned.

“I think motorcycles are interesting, personally. They go so fast that they look like they could just up and fly.”

There was a loud, stomach turning screech as Vernon slammed on the breaks to not crash into the car ahead. His face was bright red as he whipped around and spit flew as he proceeded to yell into my face.

“MOTORCYCLES DO NOT FLY!”

I blinked, my face flat in spite of my deepest desire to grin at how high his blood pressure must have risen in that exact moment.

“I know they don’t, I was just saying they looked fast enough to. Like a plane.”

“Be quiet, you!” He growled before getting back to the actual driving he was supposed to be doing. Like some sort of functional adult human responsible for children.

The Dursley’s hated three things, in general. Me, me asking questions, and me using my imagination whatsoever. I knew why, to some degree. I wasn’t normal, they knew it, and would rather that I never knew it. The extent to which they seemed to prefer I behave like a robotic servant didn’t say good things about them, but honestly nothing did. I often found myself imagining impossible things to amuse myself if only so as to covertly disobey them.

The sheer number of times my unconscious-- and admittedly, conscious-- rebellion resulted in strange events was somehow more thrilling than bothersome. If I ended up on the school roof after being overpowered by bullies, and didn’t have to be in class, I was fine with that. Or my hair growing long overnight after it was cut, or something of Dudley’s disappearing. The life of fantastic happenings contrasted with how honestly horrible the rest was, was something I felt an odd amusement in. If only because I knew anyone like me hearing of it would find more horror in it than I did. Possibly because I knew how to live with it, and most other people didn’t. Made the vindictive and spiteful parts of me feel a little less pressing when frankly magical things happened. Made me feel a little more hope.

* * *

The zoo was interesting, if only because of the large amount of animals I knew would be there. It was warm out, though that rarely bothered me, and the animals were active.

I didn’t care too strongly about the ice cream, I was well used to not getting things. That didn’t stop me from hooking the ice cream lady into the social convention of including me, though. The lemon bar, though the principal of the thing had been the purpose of the exercise, was as delicious as seeing the Dursley’s look awkward for appearing to totally forget one of their children in public. I ate it with glee as the Dursley’s gawked at the animals, and I resisted the urge to point at the gorilla and say ‘look it’s Dudley’ if only because I had some measure of self preservation that the sugar hadn’t worked through… yet. The day was still young.

Lunch was uneventful, and I found myself wiggling in my seat as I worked through the last bit of Dudley’s dessert that he’d decided wasn’t good enough.

I wanted to see the main event, the thing I had been thinking about since the car ride.

I wanted the reptile house. I wanted to try to speak to them, to know if it was all reptiles or if it was just snakes I could understand. I wanted to know if this would be the flow of a language or a moment of half translated garble. I needed to know with a desperation that I was honestly shocked at myself over.

The reptile house was dark, the sun windows glowing along the walls as we walked through the place. I distanced myself from the others as Dudley and Piers rushed around, pressing their faces to the glass and looking for the most dangerous thing there. I discreetly leaned down toward an enclosure housing a bearded dragon that was missing a toe.

“Hello, there.” It didn’t appear to notice me, or even bother responding. That said, I couldn’t tell if I couldn’t speak lizard or if this was a particularly rude specimen. I moved along the tanks, speaking quietly, until I managed to hear a few encouraging whispers from one of the smaller snakes being held up for petting at the other end of the room. They were complaining about how many children with sticky fingers had prodded it on the nose, insisting all it could taste was cotton candy after a particularly excitable child rubbed a finger over it’s nose.

I felt for them, really, but my heart was racing too fast to bother trying to do anything about it. Thankfully, the handlers were good enough at their jobs to let the animals rest.

 

Once we stood before a snake, one that was at once familiar and unknown– a constrictor, the plate said– I looked into it’s eyes and tried to understand the small movements, it’s motions as it moved along it’s environment to curl on a rock and warm itself before promptly falling asleep.

Dudley– brutish, impatient, unobservant, and impossible to satisfy–was pounding on the glass, yelling at the poor animal to attempt to make it move. Well, as much as a boy that was very devoted to not personally causing a scene in public unless he got something out of it would yell in public. He demanded Vernon do something, and Vernon rapped on the glass like it was some sort of shop window. The snake maintained an enviable level of sleep through all of it, and Dudley eventually pronounced it all boring and wandered away to bother some other living thing.

While he was off, I moved to stand before the snake and stared at it in wonder. Partially because snakes were cool, partially because it was literally less than a few feet from me, and finally because I was about to see if I could actually talk to it. Now that I was watching its tongue dart in and out lazily, my throat was dry. I realized, with some dismay, that I had no earthly clue what one would say to a snake. I felt I knew, like the conversation had already happened and I just needed to walk through it, but the actual idea was so… even for me, speaking to animals that are actually animals was a bit far afield. Not that I had long to ponder my lack of conversation skills before the snake slowly turned to look me in the eye, and winked. Now, if you’re unfamiliar with how snakes work, winking isn’t necessarily how they work. It’s less an actual eyelid and more of a membrane looking thing, and it’s usually only done when their eyes are irritated or they’re eating. So, this was interesting.

I winked back, the excitement of the moment coming back after I stopped tripping over my own brain. It proceeded to make a motion that was entirely supposed to simulate rolling it’s eyes after looking toward where the Dursley's were across the room. Then, whisper quiet and yet entirely clear-- glass separation aside-- it spoke. Well, spoke in terms of conveying it’s intent and less like speech. I tried very hard to keep from bouncing.

“I get that all the time.” The snake sounded rather tired when it said it, too. Immediately I felt for it.

“I’m sorry. That must be annoying for you.” I looked at the window as it nodded. “The glass probably makes it worse.”

“You have _no_ idea.” Was the tone I felt back. It was interesting having this felt conversation; I murmured and it seemed to understand, while it’s words-- I supposed it was words-- worked through to me. My throat hitched slightly as the words changed from what I thought to whatever snakes spoke, though it wasn’t terribly unpleasant. I made a mental note to try doing it the next time I was alone, so I could get a better feel on it.

“The plate says you were born here, but do you think about Brazil? What it would be like to be there?” My heart hurt for the snake as it nodded sadly. I believe it knew that I was also plagued by the desire to be ‘home’ when I never was. It seemed about to respond, probably to explain it’s feelings, when I became painfully aware of the sharp intake of breathe behind me.

“DUDLEY, MR. DURSLEY! COME LOOK AT THIS SNAKE!” I tried to will the feeling of ‘i am so sorry’ to the now very startled snake as Piers continued to screech. “YOU WON’T BELIEVE WHAT IT’S DOING!”

I had about half a second to feel a sudden desire to guard, before feeling the unfortunately familiar blow of Dudley’s fist to my side to push me out of his way. I hadn’t managed to guard, though, and hit the concrete like a sack of bricks.

What happened next felt familiar and shocking all at once.

Piers and Dudley had immediately pressed their faces to the glass, breathe fogging, and then jumped back fast enough they nearly fell over me. I sat up in time to realize that the glass had disappeared entirely, and also realizing this was the snake. It was moving with speed that was overall a bit faster than I thought something that large could muster, and escaping. As it passed, I heard it hiss-- clear as day-- “Brazil here I come! Thanks, amigo.”

Now, in the panic following-- in which I deeply appreciated the snake playfully nipping at the other boys’ heels with another wink sent my way, before continuing out-- I made the deduction that I was going to have a very bad time later. I didn’t know exactly why, because it wasn’t as if you could point me out as the snake free-er, but at the same time this had never stopped the Dursley family before.

I understood the feeling about the time we were leaving and Piers and Dudley were loudly insisting they’d nearly died. I felt this was over dramatic, and was about to risk a comment when Piers said the one thing I deeply wished he hadn’t said.

“Harry was talking to it too, weren’t you Harry?”

Now, for someone unacquainted with the feeling of weighing the chances of the person before them beating them to death, the following silence may have just been uncomfortable. For me, it was a period to steel myself so I could survive whatever was going to happen when Piers left. Because something was brewing in the back of Vernon’s eyes that I knew was just short of blood lust and while I wasn’t a very religious person at the moment, I started praying to not be let out on the side of the road and told to walk. Or, if whatever was in charge was feeling less generous, I would just have to set a bone or two with whatever was in the cupboard.

Perhaps something or someone had heard me, because once we were home and Piers gone, Vernon was primed and ready to go. I believe that the only reason he didn’t swing was due to the sheer terror behind his face-swelling anger. I didn’t quiet understand the fear, if only because if I had the power to do something to them, I bloody well would have by now. Regardless, it was no less terrifying to be loomed over by a man several times your size and told to go sit in the dark, and you weren’t going to eat for the foreseeable future.


	3. Planning is Everything

That night, I lay in the dark and wondered at a few things while I listened for the sounds of the Dursley's going to bed. It wouldn’t be overtly safe to sneak out for a few hours after they went to bed, and even then whatever food I could snatch from the kitchen would have to be tucked into some corner of my cupboard till I was told to take out the rubbish. While Dudley did have the habit of snacking like he’d never see food again, and left wrappers all over, it wasn’t entirely a sure bet that I could get by pretending the mess was his.

While I waited, tapping my fingers against the back of my hand idly, I thought. I had been in this house for ten miserable, degrading, and painful years. Supposedly, since I was a baby and my parents died in a car crash. I knew this wasn’t the truth, not the whole of it, but before a few months ago, thinking on it made me uneasy. If I pushed myself, I could remember the green light and pain. A feeling of terror and confusion, crying and screaming and a distinct throb around my scar. It was easier now, thinking back over the day at the zoo to know it was supposed to happen. When I was younger, though not by much, I had dreamed someone would come to save me.

That some unknown cousin or distant uncle would show up on the doorstep and demand I be given over. That they would be full of righteous anger and defend me, and then somehow the Dursley family would get what was coming to them. A great reckoning for every blow, every day spent slaving away with no food, every moment of misery.

I knew it wasn’t going to happen, of course. I would have to deliver myself from this suffering, and I knew it. The strangers that gave strange a new meaning as they greeted me on the street gave me hope for this. Some part of me, the part that knew things I shouldn’t have, knew they were like me. I could wait to be saved temporarily, through the means of someone named Hagrid-- I was fuzzy on who that actually was, but I knew his name, and that he was a friend. That he would take me away, and that idea had an entirely different emotional backing than the fantasies of being adopted away. It was true, in the same way that it was true I knew that I could speak to snakes and that the cat I spoke to wasn’t a cat. True things I knew without knowing, and I decided that night to stake my next gamble on them.

The next thing, of course, were the letters that would come. I pushed on the memory and the mental image of mounds of envelopes came. Of owls and chaos and being uprooted while the Dursley's tried their best to keep me in place.

They would not succeed.

* * *

I spent the days from there to when the commotion began, sitting under the stairs and waiting out my punishment. I had hoped my actions with the cat had sped things up, hastened how it would play out, but no. Perhaps they had and I was oblivious to the passage of time in relation to the foggy truths I knew would come.

By the time I was allowed out, I had the bare outlines of a plan. I spent my days practicing piling my meager belongings into my blankets and tying it shut, hiding food items around the neighborhood to be retrieved when I could, and doing my best to learn how to pick or break a bike lock. This was complicated somewhat by the fact that Dudley's friends and he decided this was the perfect time to beat me up. The sheer wonder of this, however, was that-- so long as I didn’t hit Dudley-- I could usually topple one or two. A few kicks to the knees, an elbow to the groin, and punching someone in the throat tends to make them wary of you just long enough that you can run away. Granted, I still caught hell from Dudley, but that was minor if I saw it coming. I usually did, because as time wore on, little was as hilarious as taunting Dudley into realizing I had just called him an absolute imbecile, and then hiding before he processed it.

* * *

July was a better month for me, if only because I was allowed to go back to Figg’s house-- I hadn’t been barred so much as the Dursley's were very convinced I'd break her other leg, for some reason. She relayed, in her sort of old woman way, that she’d tripped on one of her cats. While she insisted that she didn’t blame them for it, she seemed a touch cooler to them. She warmed up a bit as I settled into my habit of petting them. The chocolate cake she shared with me tasted a bit stale, but compared to hurriedly swallowed meals and left overs, it was wonderful.

The reason I was there, principally, was because aunt Petunia’ was off buying Dudley’s secondary school uniform. Some private school affair that I had no interest in, past knowing just enough about it to mock him. The outfit, once he’d come home with it and showed it off in the living room, rather did the mocking for me. There was a certain strength entailed to not laughing at him openly, and I was very proud of myself for not doing so because I tend to like living.

The next day, when I finally woke up I had two questions.

One, what had caused aunt Petunia to not come harass me awake, and two, what the horrible smell was that sunk into my nose. Venturing out, I found Petunia stirring something like a cauldron, and was momentarily amused at how horrified she would be at the comparison. It smelled worse in the kitchen and looking over her shoulder, the gray fabric looked worse than I had imagined it would.

“What’s… this?”

“Your new school uniform.”

“I didn’t realize Stonewall was an underwater school.” I hadn’t been able to help the joke, it was open and I took it. This earned a rather searing glare.

“Don’t be stupid.” She snapped. “I’m dyeing some of Dudley's old things for you. It’ll look like everyone else’s when I’m finished.”

I could have argued, but I heard the others coming and it was dreadfully likely I wouldn’t survive it. So, taking the very barely higher road, I sat at the table and waited. It was supposed to happen any day now, any moment. The triggering moment of my latest plan.

Vernon and Dudley settled into their chairs, Dudley's smelting stick thwacking a little rougher than strictly necessary against the table legs. Vernon opened his paper. I waited.

The sound of the mail slot felt like it echoed, and before Vernon could command one of us to get it, I stood up.

“I’ll get the mail.” I said it mostly so they would ignore how jerky my motions might have been. This is it, I thought, walking to the door so quickly I nearly couldn’t stop.

There, on the floor lay three pieces of postage. A post card that I didn’t bother to look at, a brown envelope that was probably a bill… and a heavy parchment letter addressed to me.

I knew it was coming, I knew the letters from Hogwarts would be delivered and set me free! It was perhaps because of this excitement, the feeling of a plan starting to come together, that I hesitated. It was heavy, and smooth, and mine. Turning it over, I nearly started crying at the sight of the purple wax seal, the impression perfectly centered. A badger, a lion, an eagle, and a snake surrounded the letter ‘H’, mundane in it’s utility but magical down to the atoms that made the thing up.

“Hurry up, boy!” Vernon’s shout made me yelp, and my brain stalled a bit. I didn’t know if I should hide this letter; more would come, I knew it, but did I have that long to wait? Did I really want to wait? His voice came again and I looked back toward the kitchen bitterly. “What are you doing, checking for letter bombs?”

In a way, yes, I suppose that was what I was doing. I resigned to wait and see if I would get another. If I didn’t, I resolved as I walked back to the kitchen, I only had to wait until my birthday.

Once I sat down at the table, passing the other letters over and trying to open mine under the table, things happened in a very short order. Dudley ratted me out, Vernon took the letter. Dudley and I were forced out after I unsuccessfully tried to argue it back. It wasn’t terribly bad that I lost the argument with Dudley to listen at the keyhole; I only needed to hear a few words.

I needed to hear my aunt and uncle fretting about what to do, and hear them staunchly decide to not let me become who I knew I was. Hearing them resolve on this, hearing them swear I wasn’t going to be who I knew I was going to be, it gave me the sort of resolve than one only obtains when you are thoroughly sick of your situation. Dudley took the opportunity to kick at me while I was crouched with my ear to the door, and with a smile that I would probably have done better to hide, I caught his foot. This seemed to confuse him, as I generally took his abuse with little comment aside of telling him to stop. He swung down with his stick, trying to pull free at the same time. I let go and rolled back. I took a bit too much pleasure in watching him crash backward into the door and start wailing about it.

“It’s only a door. You can’t beat a door, Duddy?” I’m not proud of the taunting I did as I stood up and watched Vernon pull open the door. I was primarily not proud of it because Vernon heard me and the look on his face was mixed at best. “He fell.”

I retreated to my cupboard before he could throw me in, and the sounds of Dudley's faux crying-- followed by Petunia assuring him that I wouldn’t touch him again-- followed me. They didn’t. I would likely go hungry that night, but I was OK with that. I had power after that, even if it was only the power of knowing I could do something. I felt brave.

That night, when Vernon came home from work, he informed me that I was not to leave the cupboard. This felt odd, in the back of my head, but I wasn’t sure why.

“Who wrote to me?” His eyes hardened and looked at a point over my shoulder. “Where’s the letter?”

“No one. It was a mistake.”

“You’re lying.” There was a particular edge to my voice when I accused him of this, and there was a ghost of rage going through his eyes. He wanted so badly to have the power to make me shrink into myself. No more. “I want my letter.”

“You won’t get it, it’s been burned.” His expression was momentarily as sour as his personality. “You’re going to forget it ever happened, and things will go back to normal.”

I waited until he started to close my door and said, with the darkest tone I could muster:

“It won’t. Normal isn’t possible for you now.”

He slammed the door and the sound nearly covered his shudder.


	4. Freedom is Broken Glass

The next morning, I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Every survival instinct I had had spent the night screaming in my brain about how I should have just left well enough alone and let things happen. Kept my head down and seen what happened. My heart shuddered in my chest at every noise the house made, at every creak and groan of the floorboards. My breath was ragged and my skin was hot as I clawed through each intake of air. The part of me that knew things, an old darkened corner of myself, told me I knew this feeling. It was akin to your body crying mutiny and jumping ship. Anxiety and panic, fear. The same part of me, a part that felt as if it was sighing pityingly as it dredged up images of cartoon people with slow and even breathing. A timer counted up to seven on the inhale, and eleven on the exhale. I followed this pattern, sweat beading on my forehead, and tried to calm myself down.

Once I had a hold of myself, even with my stomach still jittering occasionally, I tried to think. There was a certainty about the letters that I had to put faith in. I had to put faith in myself knowing what would happen, and had to trust that I would be free. I needed to be assured of myself.

By the time I was called for breakfast, I had resolved to take more of the cold steel that lingered in my veins over the Dursley’s actions and place it in my spine. I knew what was going to happen, somewhere in my head, and I needed only the strength and opportunity to do so.

The others were… strained was a good word for the atmosphere in the kitchen. Dudley appeared to be deciding if hitting me again would be worth upsetting the table, Petunia was fretting back and forth by the stove, and Vernon… Vernon remained unnerved. When the mail slot clicked open again, he seemed to be trying to ward me away from it by telling Dudley to get it. Dudley in turn thwacked my leg and told me to get it. Vernon snapped at him to get it, glaring death into my soul in a clear idea of what would happen to me should I go for it. Dudley proceeded to, by the sound of it, break every vase between the kitchen and the door.

“There’s another one! Harry Potter, cupboard under the stairs--”

I bolted. Vernon might have been able to get a hand on the back of my shirt, but it’s difficult to haul someone back when they slip out of said shirt. Dudley looked as if he’d been electrocuted as I snatched the letter, the parchment ripping a bit at the side as I pulled it from him. Vernon, unfortunately was hot on my heels and wrested it from me.

“No-- Cupboard, go!” Vernon’s face was already approaching that horrible shade of red when he realized I hadn’t moved. He pointed Dudley to the kitchen. “Dudley, go- just go-”

“I want to see the letter--” He whined, but Vernon didn’t seem to hear. He was, instead, staring into my defiant face. Because I hadn’t moved.

“They know I didn’t get it.” The color drained right back out of his face, eyes widening just a bit. I hazarded a step forward. “They’ll know now, too. You know that.”

“Go to your cupboard or so help me--” His hand was raised, and I wasn’t one hundred percent certain that he wouldn’t swing, but he was afraid. He was terrified and that thrilled me much more than I should have been proud of. “Go!”

“They’ll know.” I intoned once more before doing as I was told.

I was certain, the cold fear in my stomach be damned, that I would be free. I would be free and it would be glorious in my satisfaction of it. I could feel it.

Soon letters came in a variety of new and exciting and rather novel ways. Around the door-- Vernon had hammered the mail slot shut while glaring at me. Inside eggs, to Petunia’s terror. Through the basement bathroom window. The wonderful thing about paranoia is that while you’re under the impression that you are covering all your bases, you’re actually too panicked to do so. As Vernon super-glued the windows shut, I calmly collected the letters that came through the chimney. While he complained to the post office and angrily worked through each and every piece of shopping, I stacked up the letters that were coming up the heating vents. I was very sure to hide them outside of ‘my’ area, however-- no matter my curiosity, I couldn’t dare read them yet.

I wanted them to break, first. If I read the letters, I reasoned, they would stop sending them.

And that was far less amusing, no matter how many times I was bodily thrown from a room or pushed down the stairs. A vindictive echo from the part of me that knew what was going to happen mused about the possibility of causing Vernon a heart attack. I pushed this thought away. I didn’t want people dead, I wanted them to suffer.

That maniacal thought was all well and good until I overheard Vernon and Petunia discussing about what to do if more came. The windows and doors were all boarded up, and he’d stopped going to work. I had been watching the calendar in the kitchen every morning as Petunia marked off days fitfully. She was counting days of this madness, I was counting toward my birthday. The problem was, the longer this went on, the more Vernon wasn’t particularly thinking clearly.  
Something told me I had to make my move soon, I would be trapped until events played out otherwise. I refused to let this happen, and thus grabbed as many stashed letters as I could and secreted them away under my mattress.

They ordered me into my cupboard that night, and for the first time in a while, the lock on my door clicked over. Vernon peered, a little unsteadily, through the small grate in the door.

“You’re going to stay in here for a while! If they don’t see you through windows, perhaps they’ll stop!”

“They won’t.” I couldn’t stop myself, really, and he snarled in response. It was rather unsettling if I was honest. “Besides, I can stay in here without the lock-- what if I need to go to the bathroom?”

He ignored me in favor of sliding the grate shut and walking away, muttering about how he’d finally have a good nights rest.

I decided that night was when I would say to hell with it.

I gathered what clothes, items and letters I had into my blanket and bound it up as I had practiced. Then, I sat down– it was snug and not that there was much standing room to begin with– and braced my back to my bed and feet to the door. One kick with no muscle from a malnourished body isn’t terribly good, but it’s not bad if you’re determined. Another kick straight to the middle bowed the door and a few more swift ones cracked it– it wasn’t a heroic break out, but it was enough to pass a skinny arm through to force the wrenched lock open.

With my heart taking up altogether too much room in my throat, I shot toward the door and started attempting to pull the wood around the edges off.

I could hear the family getting up, breaking out being a rather noisy thing, but I hardly had far to go to the door before I had gotten to work. The planks held fast, however, and the feeling of panic welled in my chest. I could hear Vernon’s tell tale stomping coming down the hallway above, and made a perhaps rash decision. The windows were glued and nailed down, yes, but the glass was still glass. Punching it, contrary to literally every piece of media I had ever consumed, did nothing.

Swinging the bundle of canned food, clothes, and letters certainly did something, though. So did the force of me throwing the bundle through, and crawling after.

There was shouting now, Vernon steaming down the stairs, but I was outside. Some bits of glass clung to my clothing as I rolled across the ground after exiting, the feeling of being cut here and there as well-- but I had too much adrenaline fueling me now. I clumsily grabbed up the bundle, and took off down the street. Past all the lamp posts, past Miss Figg’s, past the corner and until I saw the road leading to the city.

I ran.

I ran until my feet hurt worse than the Dursley’s ever did to me, than any headache I’d ever gotten trying to think of schoolwork on top of what they made me do. I ran until my feet were as red and sore and bloody as the life ahead of me was set out to be.

* * *

My name is Harry Potter.

They call me the Boy Who Lived.

I’m now the Boy Who Ran.

I have decided to do things a little differently than what was set out for me, but whatever happens– no one will ever treat me like that again.

I will not let them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And i raaaan, i raaaan so faaara awaaaay


	5. Tzedakah and Shoes

A series of things occur to you post-running away that, honestly, I was disappointed at television for never covering. For example, planning means nothing if you run off half cocked with nothing but a poorly knotted bundle of crap and your pajamas. Likewise, once you stop running you become very painfully aware of how many things you wish you had included in your mad dash to freedom.

Shoes, for starters.

I really should have brought some shoes, if only because adrenaline does not magically make one incapable of feeling shards of glass in their feet, or gravel deciding it was going to cozy up with said glass in your feet. Because life is not kind to people running bare foot along side the road. Also, I should probably have looked where I was going when I decided taking off into the night was a very good idea in terms of switching up my destiny. A map would have been wonderful after about the third traffic circle I darted through, or seventh alley I tripped into trying to stay out of sight.

Another wonderful thing I found myself without: socks.

Hogwarts letters did not come with socks.

They were, however, flammable enough to keep someone warm while they’re reading other, less crumpled letters. The parchment, for the record, smelled as if someone had set a sheep on fire and then put it out exclusively using piss. That might just have been the average aroma one achieves by using a bulk sized food can as a portable fireplace, though. One full letter could usually keep the small fire burning for a few hours if I scrounged up some cardboard and hid behind something. Partially to keep the wind off of it, and partially because I felt it would be bad form to run away only to be hauled back to Privet Drive because someone saw me playing with fire.

This train of thought was mostly brought on by the fact that I was sitting in the middle of… not London? Maybe London. Possibly London. It was entirely possible I was no where near London in any conceivable way aside of being in the same country. Every time I tried to think about maps and directions, I came up empty. Granted, I hadn’t thought I would need to look up said directions and wasn’t terribly well read on the subject, but there was just… nothing. Like my mind accepted that I was trying to think about it, and then promptly shrugged its shoulders before going back to wondering where my next meal would come from.

Practically, that was fair, but the memory blanks were becoming a pain. Especially when trying to pull on memories that felt decades back, because I had the sense they’d be useful, and then hitting the wall of the green light full force. It was even more unsettling a feeling after I had left Privet drive, the headaches and nausea. I couldn’t cope with the waves of nausea with this body, not as a starving– even more so now– skinny, bony, and cold kid.  
As days had gone by, the occasional reference to myself in the third person floated through my head and I often needed to lay down. This was easier wanted than done, as most places I could lay down were either very damp or much too in the open to be any comfort. The moments where I thought ‘Harry would’ or ‘Harry should’ or ‘not like this’ were the most disorienting, if only because they felt so foreign. Memories drifting up from that barred off part of my brain were easier to parse when they were passive; like I was processing them as suggestions from myself, instead of some ‘other’ making commentary. The implications of that realization were promptly pushed into a mental box and ignored because I had more than enough other things to worry about.

Even when I felt the surge of nausea, the feeling of familiarity lingered and I felt… tired, I supposed. I didn’t know if the fatigue was from thinking too much, or from sleeping in fits and starts in alleys. I knew this was bad for me, and that I was going to be a mess until my birthday, when someone named Hagrid came for me. When the date on the letter came and I could go somewhere I could be safe and fed. The idea of safety conflated with Hogwarts had an uncomfortable feeling at the base of my skull, a nervous sort of amusement that I put down to just being terribly excited to sleep in a bed again.

I knew I needed to get in contact with this Hagrid, or someone from Hogwarts. The more I tried to think about it, though, think forward, my head hurt. So, changes to destiny were allowed, but no gaming the system too much. Some things had to happen, things that were true in ways I didn’t know, and I would just have to be patient as time ran on. I supposed, morbidly, that meant I couldn’t go out and find some sympathetic millionaire to adopt me before I went to school. Oh, well.

So, I set to planning again. I hoped it would have a more desirable end result than my last plan, which, again, had landed me sleeping next to dumpsters.

I was in the middle of a city that I first had run, and then dead exhaustion walked to. I wasn’t sure how many owls would come to me as I tried to look for places to stay. How many, I wondered, could come to me without giving me or the wizarding world away. I didn’t know why people knowing about magic would have been a bad thing, but the pang of anxiety I felt at the wondering was enough to confirm that magic users would be stealthy about these things. Logically, I had met a few and they seemed… odd, if I was being generous. Also I couldn’t honestly imagine how television hadn’t gotten their hands on some form of magic to start making shows and things, if there wasn’t some sort of secrecy.

I momentarily wondered if someone would call the police on a boy sitting in some park, surrounded by hordes of owls. If nothing else, I personally would have stood and stared for a bit. That thought made me exceedingly nervous. The last thing I needed was the Dursleys sending people out for me via “search for masses of owls”, or people tracking said owls to see where they were all going.

If they were looking. Maybe they weren’t, all considered.

Hogwarts would be looking, though. It had been looking since I was left on the Dursleys’ doorstep, waiting for me to turn eleven. At least, I hoped that was the case and the feeling in the back of my head wasn’t wrong. The owls had kept coming once I had left, for some reason beyond me, and several had plainly observed me reading the letters. I was actually, if we were all being honest with ourselves, rather confused about why they kept up. Eventually, I reached the conclusion that they were more coming after me in hope of a response to the letters they’d left. Till that occurred to me, I hadn’t thought about it and it took a bit of worry off my shoulders to have a solution ahead of me. However much of a solution it was.

I either had to respond to a letter– somehow– and tell them I needed assistance, or wait until someone came for me. Someone would come for me. The man named Hagrid, certainly. There must also be a way for the magical world to find homeless children with magic, there must be. What kind of system would it be, otherwise?  
A feeling of deep uncertainty welled up in response to that thought, and I tried equally deeply to ignore it. I had to stay strong and not let myself waver. If I wavered, I might go back. If I went back I would be beaten to an inch of my life, and be under the stairs forever.

* * *

At the moment, I was curled up by a dumpster in an alleyway, sitting on a wooden pallet to stay out of the rainwater. It was colder than I had anticipated that day– because of course it was– and my stomach was growling to the point of pain. The upside of having to wear Dudley’s old clothes was that the baggy extra room let the heat I did generate build up, but the downside was that they got damp faster. My can/fire-pit wouldn’t stay lit and I was running out of food.

I had tried to catch some of the owls that came that day, to try to communicate that they needed to wait a moment, but apparently they took not having a quill and parchment to respond as dismissal. They had flown off, looking indignant. I had no mice or anything to offer that might entice a bird of prey to sit around while I tried to write something on the back of an envelope. Life, it seemed, was not really into helping the “Contact Hogwarts” mission I had set for myself.

Keeping that in mind, I had to find food. I couldn’t wait for my birthday on faith alone, and definitely not on an empty stomach.

* * *

After walking a considerable distance, and being reasonably sure I had picked up something from walking in the city barefoot, I was able to get food.

Initially, I had tried asking around at places for stale bread– something I imagined most people wouldn’t want to keep and would be fine with handing over to a starving child. That approach got me ran off with not unsurprising vigor. As I was beginning to resign myself to dumpster diving when I happened across a blessing with an address.

A synagogue, with it’s doors propped open as several people chatted around the interior. The part of me that knew things urged me forward and I nervously poked my head inside. Immediately I felt out of place; everyone from children younger than myself up to a few elderly people were dressed nicely. They all seemed to know one another, sharing a room wide meal of some kind. There was a table full of food, the remains of a large loaf of bread rested on a little cart, and there were rows of different bottles. That was to say nothing of the elaborate and awe-inspiring decorations-- through a door to one side I could see rows of seats and what looked like a highly decorated cabinet in the back of the room. There was a large, battered scroll behind glass in the entryway that was labeled as being from Poland. My eyes pricked a little at the corners as I read the little information card talking about how the scroll was smuggled out and to England before coming there. There was a strange tightness in my throat and I devoted a good several minutes sifting through the emotions that welled up along with it.

It felt like this was a good place to go, and that’s the only reason I had come, but at the same time it felt… strange to be there. I had already committed to trusting the feelings that welled up like this, to the blurry flashes of events and emotions-- but I was at a loss. Was I supposed to steal the food while people were distracted? Was I supposed to simply ask for it? Who would I even ask?

“Hello, there.” I jumped approximately five feet in the air before whipping around to face the speaker. He was a kindly looking older gentleman, leaning lightly on a cane and wore a… the word yarmulke surfaced in my mind for some reason. His face was kind, and more than a little amused by my response. The pair of large, thick glasses perched on his nose made him look perhaps a touch more non-threatening; they made him seem quite like somebody’s grandfather. “Can I help you?”

All that came out was a strangled attempt at speech, which he humored by nodding. I cleared my throat and tried again.

“I-- I’m sorry, I’m just very hungry and…” His eyes followed the direction I gestured, toward the food. “I smelled the food.”

“Would you like to have some with us?”

My eyes must have widened a fair bit, because he nodded to reaffirm the invitation.

“I could-- if you wouldn’t mind-- take the left overs. I don’t want to intrude.” It felt like this man was goading me in preparation of telling me to beat it, but from his expression that was entirely my own thinking.

“What’s your name, young man?”

“Harry, sir.”

“Well then Harry, I don’t think anyone will object to having another person join us.”

I was much too grateful, and afraid that my anxiety would demand I bolt, to argue further and followed him into the large room where the others were talking. I was welcomed to the table with the old man, who introduced himself as Rabbi Shapiro as I ate. It was the sabbath, he explained, and service had ended not long before I wandered in-- he explained that today was a day of rest and rejoicing for them, so they generally did not spend it discussing unpleasant things. That said, he clarified, it was paramount to their community and their people to help those in need and that sometimes meant addressing things at that time. He and his wife asked me about where I was staying, if I had a way to stay warm, and if I had a regular source of food.

I didn’t tell them the whole truth, I couldn’t without the concern of being sent back, but I told them a truth. I was living on the streets, I had no food as of then, and I slept in alleys. I had been trying to contact a family friend I knew of, but I didn’t know how to contact him-- only having one name made it difficult. Rabbi Shapiro offered me a place to stay while I tracked down who I needed to find, their guest room. I think he had picked up on how nervous I was about going to the police or authority for help and that was why he’d offered.

I refused, if only because I might cause them trouble-- I wasn’t sure what it meant to Jewish people if swarms of owls showed up en mass to deliver letters to an academy of witchcraft, but I wasn’t going to drag them into it. Likewise, I had the feeling it would make me comfortable. If I got comfortable, I feared, I wouldn’t want to go ahead.

To compromise, Rabbi insisted I rest in the temple entryway. The rest of the place would be locked unless someone else was there, but the entryway had heat and a couch. I knew that security was part of the placement, there was a camera above me in this situation, in the event I tried to do something like break further into the temple and… I wasn’t sure what, aside of perhaps stealing something. I insisted on cleaning to make it up to him, and he allowed it, under the condition that I wear the pair of shoes his son sent in with him the next day. That, and the slightly worn backpack his wife pushed into my hands when they both came in. It contained a small tarp, socks, a few pads of paper, and pens.

It was a good arrangement, I decided one night as I watched cars pass the temple. The challa-- a kind of braided bread-- that the rabbi’s wife had given me that morning was still good that night, and I was just about convinced I could do this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [is a very jewish and anxious mess]  
> Tzedakah is charitable giving. helping out a likable street kid v much fits i feel


	6. Hello, Hagrid

The days toward my 11th birthday managed to crawl by, in spite of how busy I kept myself.

I would clean, then walk to a park to work on my letter writing, then depending on the weather I would return to the temple or stay wherever I happened to be when the sun went down. I spent many nights wrapped in my tarp and blanket, under benches in a park and hoping devoutly that no one would notice me. The Rabbi would still allow me in, of course, but I’d cut it down to just the worst nights– when someone had reported seeing me and I felt skittish, or someone unsettling was waiting around the park. Rabbi had been kind enough to not say anything to anyone, though I didn’t know if it was because he believed that I was really on my own, or if he simply understood that I was running from something. Maybe he had said something to someone and I was just lucky enough to out maneuver them.

Now, if the Dursleys’ had people looking for me, I didn’t see them– likely because I have a general aversion to authority figures and anyone that looked like they would associate with anyone Dursley-ish.

They may well have just washed their hands of the whole business, I reflected, as I tried to compose a proper reply/Letter of Request of Aid to Hogwarts that sounded like a reasonable eleven year old wrote it. I kept making things too complicated, or too simple, or writing myself in circles. Honestly, writing in pen might not have been the best, but that’s what I had to work with.

The Dursley’s preferred to be viewed as perfectly “normal” after all, and I figured that my disappearance would likely have warranted a celebration. Dudley probably got many more gifts he proceeded to harm others with and then break. Petunia was probably ecstatic over the fact she once again had more to gossip about than to have gossiped about her. Vernon was likely still a purple lump of screaming, abusive, overpoweringly disgusting, vile, worms in a tie.

* * *

I was in the middle of doodling a rather impressive image of #4 Privet Drive on fire by the light of a streetlamp, when I became vaguely aware that approaching up a street toward the park behind me, were the sounds a motorcycle. The sounds that a heavy motorcycle makes when you’ve ridden it over things it really should not be ridden over one too many times. Like gravel, rocky terrain if it’s a smooth riding bike, or perhaps someone enchanted a thing one ought not have to ride in the air. Being ridden down a muggle street at dusk, toward a vaguely dirty, scrawny boy with a knapsack sitting at the edge of a park. As I heard it come to a stop somewhere behind me, I turned and took in the sight of the gigantic rider dismounting.

This was was the point at which I had to process in full the size of Hagrid and the motorcycle. No foggy dream from before the green did him justice– hands the size of trashcan lids nothing, he could have palmed my torso. Then again, my torso was rather thin, so that might be saying more about me than him. As he settled himself on two feet beside the bike, he turned fully to grin at me, which was more off-putting than it should have been. He loomed over me by a fair margin as I stared opened mouthed, but not in a threatening way– I had the distinct feeling that was more that that was just how Hagrid was. He was big and tall and wide. His beard was worth about 5 heads of hair and every inch of my self control went into not poking it, because it looked bushy and bristly, like the hair on a favorite doll or like my own. Logically, it wasn’t difficult but the lingering mental familiarity made it terribly hard. His eyes were sparkling in the lamplight and the feeling of reaching another milestone welled up.

“There you are Harry! Been lookin’ for you all over!” He boomed warmly, again I felt not intentionally so much as that was just his voice. Loud was just how he was. The warmth was nice though, and I was struck with how genuine the tone seemed. It took everything in my body to quench the immediate feeling that this man was about to try to con me before he’d said anything of the sort. Warmth meant danger, it meant a trick as far as my anxiety went. I had to remember through the green that Rubeus Hagrid was a good man and I shouldn’t bolt because I was a panicky child. I suppose my look of confusion skipped over him, or he was taking it in stride, because he continued as if I was quiet aware of who he was. “Got yer dad’s wanderin’ streak in ya, runnin’ all over the countryside, not answerin’ your letters! Got yer mum’s eyes though, must have ‘er smarts in there, findin’ you writin’ away! Lookit ya, grown so much since the last time I saw you! Then again, you was just a baby!”

I had processed a similar scene before, mentally, and prepared to try to act through it. But one cannot look at a very large man being soft and not be thrown. At least I couldn’t, because those descriptors didn’t go together in my experience. Additionally, like the snake, I had the idea of the conversation-- not a script. It didn’t help, really.

“Um, I'm sorry-- do I know you?” I am the pinnacle of eloquence at all times, naturally. He looked a bit surprised and chuckled, sticking his hand out for a shake and I finally understood the term ‘shook so hard his whole arm moved’. Alright, so I wasn’t sure that was a term so much as I decided to make it one, to myself. He looked rather concerned when I bodily tipped over and he patted my back good-naturedly.

“Easy there, Harry. Name’s Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of the Grounds and Keys of Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry! Call me Hagrid. Oh, that reminds me.” He then presented me with a box that he retrieved from the motorcycle, a pink thing with twine keeping the bent edges together. Inside I found a slightly squashed cake. I believe he was surprised when I took this chance to plop the box down on the bench and start eating out it using my hands. I am not a proud person. Harry Potter is not a proud person. He seemed amused by this honestly. “Err.. Was going to say I sat on it a bit, but it’s still good. Ya seem to like it well enough without me tellin’ ya, though.”

“I haven’t eaten in a day an’ a half.” I said through a mouthful of cake, shoveling another handful in, and swallowing painfully. This was, sadly, only about ten percent to try fast-tracking getting to this Diagon Alley place I dreamed about, and someplace to stay. The other 90% was because I was telling the truth and was going to cry from the sentiment. The cake was overly moist, like it had been soaked in something, though it wasn’t bad. I was definitely going to have to wash in a water-fountain later. But boy, did it hit the spot. “This is the best birthday ever.”

Hagrid’s face had darkened at the start of the comment, and was pitch black by the end. I saw his body language shift drastically from ‘excited’ to ‘borderline angry’ and I froze, the knee-jerk reaction to those emotions kicking in.

“What’d you say?”

I swallowed and hurriedly closed the box, my heart starting to race as the panic started. There was a feeling of safety in my head about Hagrid, but that was just a feeling and I was looking at a very large man who appeared very angry. My words tumbled out before I could compose myself. “I’m sorry, did I say something wrong? I’m sorry. It’s a good cake, was I not supposed to eat the cake? I’m sorry for eating the cake.”

“No, no– Merlin’s beard– It’s your cake Harry.” His voice was quieter now, hands waving a bit while he tried to think of what to do with me. He seemed to be processing something. With a look around, he put his hands in his pockets. “Harry, why’re you out here, hungry, an’ not in a house?”

I blinked slowly, trying to work the tension out of my muscles without him noticing, before raising an eyebrow.

“I… ran away? Because it was better out here?”

Hagrid was quiet for a while more. I started eating the cake again as he sorted through his thoughts.

“Have ya got yer letter, have ya read it? Do ya know what yer parents were, what ya are?” He’d come around the front of the bench and knelt down to be on eye level with me now, and looked very concerned. Bless Hagrid. Bless every single hair on his head, including his eyebrows and eyelashes, he sounded so genuine.

And curse that I have to pretend that I didn’t know he was, for the sake of sparing myself the trouble.

“What I– homeless? Some kinda freak?”

“Freak? Who told you that?” He got angry again for a bit and calmed himself when he saw panic flash over my face again.

“The Dursleys? That’s why I ran away. They kept locking me in a closet and telling me to stop acting weird and hitting me when weird things happened.” He seemed to be boiling up around the edges, but letting me continue so he could rage later. I toyed with a corner of the cake box. “They always said my parents died in a car crash and I was weird like them, but I didn’t die. And that it was my fault, the crash. So I ran once i got the letter, just… just in case there were people like me who’d come looking. I know, it was stupid.”

Not technically lying, something I was much better at in recent weeks, but it was also true. Tell a kid they’re a mistake enough and that their parents were too, and don’t let them know more, and they draw conclusions. The conclusions being drawn in front of me right then, though, were likely that Hagrid was going to turn all the Dursleys’ into pigs or something. I so hoped he would. Or tell this all to this Dumbledore in the letters and they’d all be turned into bugs in a small terrarium. Perhaps that was my own wishful thinking.

Definitely my own wishful thinking because about the time I finished that musing, Hagrid exploded into a full on explanation of everything– I pressed for info here and there on Voldemort, a name I didn’t fear to think, but had dreamed about with trepidation. As well as other topics when prompted– from my parents to Hogwarts. Even how Mcgonagall had pressed him to come looking for me early, which he announced was good ‘if you been livin’ like this Harry’.

I tried very hard not to fist pump over my to-cat-commentary working. It would have thrown off the whole feeling of the conversation. Also, would have wasted cake eating time.

Hagrid paused to write off a quick letter to… someone I imagine, and told me to hop onto the motorcycle when I was done eating. He muttered something about not letting this stand and taking me somewhere to get cleaned up. He also talked about taking me to Diagon Alley so I had some place nice to sleep for a bit before dealing with business.

“Alright, but… If I go to this Hogwarts place, Hagrid, I don’t have any money for supplies.”

“Your parents– they left you some. It’s a job for the mornin’ Harry, don’t you worry.”

“Alright.” I finished the last of my cake, and after depositing the box in a nearby bin, climbed onto the back of the motorcycle with some difficulty. “I don’t have to go back to the Dursleys’ right?”

“Not after I have a word with Dumbledore you bloody well won’t.”

* * *

It was a good job that I was sitting behind him. Partially because I had a sly grin from my plan going well, and then because of the look of abject terror on my face because I had forgotten the motorcycle flew.

By all laws of aerodynamics, a motorcycle should not be able to maintain flight. But this one does anyway, because it’s magic and it doesn’t care what Muggle math has to say.

Hagrid had to peel a very suddenly pale Boy Who Lived off his jacket when we landed, reassuring me that the bike took some time to get used to. I had managed to not puke or wet myself on the way, or along the path to the Leaky Cauldron, which I then deemed the mark of a successful flight. That said, the adrenaline and rush of finally heading head-first into what I had dreamed to be my destiny-- it wasn’t entirely conducive to taking in the sights around me.

I vaguely remembered the events that lead to me scrubbing cake off my face and arms in a small bathroom. The events didn’t involve the man in a turban, or massive crowds. Either we were ahead of what I dreamed would happen, I blew the line of people wanting to meet me off and skipped a good deal of the whole affair, or Hagrid did me a favor and ushered me away from people before handshakes happened. It was also rather late at night, so it was entirely possible there were little to no bystanders when we entered the Leaky Cauldron. I recalled the person running the counter getting very excited, then being hushed, and giving us a key while I attempted to process events.

Our room was on the second floor, and after I had cleaned myself up enough to not make a mess of the bedspread, I noticed it was rather nice. I wasn’t sure what I had expected the decor of a magical inn to be, but the simple wallpaper and furniture seemed to fit it. There was a single twin-sized bed, a large plush sofa, and a few paintings on the walls.

Hagrid took the couch and it sagged and creaked like it was about to break. I felt some slightly aware part of me twinge with anxiety, but I was too tired and high on adrenaline to care. Besides, magic can fix nearly any object. Whatever.

* * *

After I had wrapped myself in the blankets like a small magical caterpillar, sleep came with little issue. I was in the clear, I was going to be safe and happy for once in my life.

The feeling of being in the clear had gone after about nine hours.

Not exactly nine, I hadn’t been in the habit of counting how many hours of sleep I tucked away, if only because the number was usually so low it was depressing. For once, though, I had been experiencing the best sleep I had ever gotten and I took it for all it was worth.

Then, in the early morning as I rolled over in bed, the migraine came. Oh, Harry Potter you poor, poor bastard. Poor bastard, poor me. Like dying, but slow and only in the spot around my scar. A searing pain that closely followed the scar tissue over my face, not deviating from the position aside of the momentary stabs deeper into my skull.

I wanted to screw my eyelids closed tighter, push on the pain until it left me, but part of me knew that would make it worse. This wasn’t the sort of migraine you get from a bad nerve acting up, or a pulled neck muscle. I laid warm hands over my forehead and tried to breathe through it. The cold burning began seeping then, down through my nostrils and through to the back of my throat, to the roof of my mouth. It wasn’t the main jabbing that my dreams had affectionately dubbed the “FYI, Snakefuck McDick is nearby” feeling, but these were the after effects.

The jab itself radiated over my eye and opening either of them to look around made everything fuzzy– like someone was blasting white noise and shining lights at me. While also stabbing me in the head with something barbed and refrigerated.

In spite of my usual theatrics, this was not simply being dramatic. The part of me that knew things reeled internally and I felt like I knew this pain. Like a whole part of me stopped being me and was pained as it tried to escape. The realization of what I was feeling washed over me as I pressed the heel of my palms against my eyes. The foggy dreams had told me several unsettling things over the last few weeks, among which was that someone wanted my soul; more specifically the man that killed my parents wanted whatever residue of his life that was left to me.

Thinking ahead terribly far by thinking backwards in time wasn’t something something I could do, but I am nothing if not stubborn and I knew one thing I damn well planned on doing. There would be no reclaiming this piece of himself, there would be no dragging it out of me.

I lay in bed for twenty minutes past waking up, sweat rolling off of me like a fever had taken me for all I had, and focused on the pain until I wanted to vomit– but finding the separation, exactly, in my mind was going to be key later. I didn’t know exactly how, but this painful piece of me was _mine_.

I am the boy who lived, the boy who ran, the boy who thinks, the boy who plans.

And I would be damned if I was the boy who is caught unaware simply because something was unpleasant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The day i can use "Dursley" in a sentence properly is the day the grammar police come for me


	7. Tophats and Curiosity

If only the following morning had met my imagined bravado.

One of the problems with planning on coming downstairs into the barroom of the Leaky Cauldron after sweating my way through about an hour long magic migraine, was that there was really no dignified way to exist in public afterward. It was like trying desperately to keep a straight face through a class presentation after eating something rotten.

I would like to say that I had been capable of striding down the stairs, intent to do a very dramatic verbal sparring match with a dastardly villain that my dreams told me would be there, confident and composed like a some sort of knight. That, however, would be lying because what one has to remember at this and all times, is that I was still an eleven year old child that weighed less than 100 pounds soaking wet. I was not really capable of more composure than most other eleven year old kids, I imagined, but a few things made it slightly worse.

I was an eleven year old child, wearing clothing that I was swimming in, both from it being hand-me-downs and from being stretched out by desperate attempts to hide inside it like a turtle. A small, tired and anxious turtle that had been sleeping in a tarp under a park bench before he had a chance to sleep in a warm magic pub somewhere in London that he had been flown to on a motorcycle. This wouldn’t change with any amount of preparation.

In all honesty, the quick shower I managed to pull myself into that morning—leaving Hagrid muttering over the poor sagging couch and writing another letter—was about the only thing that kept my head the right way around on my shoulders. I needed to remember not to start something before I knew I was getting the interpretation right, of course, but it was very tempting to give in to the feeling of confidence I had welling in my chest. Confidence that, I reminded myself, came from vague dreams and an intense feeling of foreboding on occasion.   
After I had pulled on the clothes in my bag that were the least likely to make it look like I had rolled in mud before coming to the Cauldron, I rejoined Hagrid to go down for breakfast.

“I might be under-dressed.” I muttered as he raised an eyebrow at my outfit.

“You’re jus fine Harry.” The reassurance was extremely helpful because I still looked like I had been sleeping outside for several weeks, because I had, and I had the self awareness to be awkward about it.

Thankfully the dinning room was sparsely populated, because not a lot of people had time to day drink I assumed, and we were able to pick out a nice corner table. I wasn’t content until I had wedged my back into the space where the booth met the wall and had pulled a leg up like some sort of poorly placed gargoyle, as you do.

I also quietly asked Hagrid if they had anything small to order, because while I was hungry, some part of me knew that eating a lot would probably make me sick. None the less, Hagrid was intent on getting me the biggest plate of food he could physically order me before we went shopping for my school supplies. I resigned to feeling stuffed to the gills, if only because I wasn’t entirely sure what he considered a large breakfast.

Thankfully for the shopping, I still had a list from all the letters the owls had managed to drop on me in the park… whichever park that actually had happened to be. I had ended up burning a good deal of the letters to stay warm, or using them to wrap leftovers in, so most of them weren’t what you would call readable to the naked or bespectacled eye. I wasn’t sure how I felt occasionally having had eaten congealed jam off a paper telling me to buy something with silver buttons, but that was yesterday’s problem, not the problem for today’s Harry.

Luckily for me and my anxiety, the main room had remained thinly populated while my food was being cooked. The man named professor Quirrell, who my dreams made known to me was in fact present—I was told so by Hagrid as he entered—but only just as my food hit the table and I was, I am not too proud to admit, too hungry to care past that. Tom the barman was happily setting things up along the, well, bar. And, for all of his work to keep his excitement contained the last time I’d seen him, he seemed to be vibrating to get a proper introduction today. I contemplated not doing much other than existing in a cloud of food and the tangent about dogs I’d managed to get Hagrid on, but Tom had been ever so nice and the food was very good, so we started chatting. Then, a man with a very large top hat and a very pleased expression shuffled in and came over, nearly toppling Quirrell on his ass in the process, and said hello— Mr. Diggle he said his name was and I said I recognized his top hat.

I’m not actually sure if I did or not, but it would have been rude to comment after I'd said it.

Some part of me was, about the fourth or perhaps seventh sausage I had put in my mouth, vaguely sure I had read something about seeing something about a top hat. Perhaps I could get a top hat. Several even.

Mr. Diggle was very pleased I recognized his top hat. I know because I let him talk about it at length, standing by mine and Hagrid’s table as I continued to eat a seemingly endless amount of food. I tucked away a mental note to look up if that was possible to do, endless food.

I could feed so many people with that, I thought, and made a mental note to wander around shelters handing out magic infinity food once I had the whole magic thing down.

The upside of eating in a large room while you are a child, with people who are not children and who don’t wish to offend you, is that they tend to ask very politely if they can join you for conversations, or if they are intruding, and they don’t mind if you keep eating with one hand and shake the other. I know this because the growing procession of people who filtered in as time passed didn’t seem to want to point out to The Boy Who Lived that his table manners weren’t the best, and I was fine with that.

Or so Mr. Diggle, at least, didn’t seem to be so inclined to do, because I kept asking about his hat in the way adults expect obedient and polite children to do so, if only because it would then seem rude to the other adults watching to interrupt, and that kept things to a one person interaction.

I did this primarily because I would rather not be mobbed, I also wanted his top hat or one very similar, because it could have magic properties, or at least looked very cool. While I was sure he would have given it—and indeed the shirt off his back—to me, I reasoned that would have gotten me off to a rather poor start. Honestly, come to think on it, I could probably afford many of my own top hats in the future, even top hats for my friends and their families— a top hat legion, if you will. No, would that be a coven, given we could do magic? A coven of top hats. Was a group of hats just called a group of hats? I made another mental note to ask when I found a magical hat shop.

This flight of fancy was sponsored by Mr. Diggle now speaking with Hagrid in an extended conversation about the possibility of hats that could fit him, which I engaged in to avoid speaking to Quirrell who was then occupying his time trying to break into this three way banter to talk at me, but I refused to let him break in without breaking the persona I was _sure_ he was holding up.

Mostly by making a concentrated effort of doing everything that would make someone with anxiety absolutely incapable of entering the conversation, and it was going very, very well. It gave me more than enough time to size up the enemy so it was, though I found myself unimpressed.

Quirrell was younger than I had expected—not some thirty or forty something man that other adults couldn’t read as creepy because they were too caught up with themselves, not some guy you don’t notice in the break room at work till he loses it. No, he appeared to be in his mid-twenties, not out of place at a university, maybe a really nice library, if I had to put him somewhere. He had a tic to his face, a fidget to his fingers and his eyes darted around the room when he wasn’t trying to talk. Nothing the feeling in my head seemed to place as unusual for someone with say, paranoia or PTSD, knowing what they are. The way he had approached Hagrid and stood near his chair after greeting him in the stuttering way that was annoyingly natural, shifting here and there with a stance of someone who knew how to move and handle oneself but also one of someone who had seen what happens if they don’t.

The difference in what I was _seeing_ and what I had felt I would see was annoying at best and worrying at worst. It felt strange in some deep part of my brain that was growing increasingly bothered by the situation.

I chewed through my hash and sausages with an increased fervor as Mr. Diggle took his leave and Hagrid started speaking to Quirrell, thankfully not having brought the attention over to me yet.

It wasn’t surprising, I supposed after a few moments.

I had a set image in mind for millions of things, I was going to be wrong, and when I was I was going to have to roll with it, but the fact that there wasn’t something obviously sinister to this man made my shoulders itch. Paranoia wasn’t even the main explanation of it, I knew, I had the memories, blurred and set in my head—he was evil. A devil, but he looks exactly like so many people left after the war that not a single person would see something strange aside of me here.

Knowing what I knew, before The Green people were dying young and joining causes that were even younger. It was a war of young blood being spilled and young people trying desperately to survive. The old might have been part of it and the old guard might still be around, but it was the younger generations that was most scarred and were going to be scarred again and— the more I thought on it, the more I could feel the threat of another headache.

Thankfully for me, I finished the food—or what I had shoved into my mouth at that point in time, really—by the time Hagrid pulled me into their conversation.

I was taking a long drink of water while Hagrid was introducing him to me, probably earning me several ‘rude and unperson-able’ points, but I kind of wanted the following handshake to be as cold and clammy for him as I assumed it was going to be for me.

Surprisingly, it was… not. Timid, thinner than Hagrid’s had been by several miles, and he seemed vaguely surprised at how little there was to my hand when we shook, but that was it. He seemed to study my confused expression as I studied my hand before he bid us both farewell—assuring me it was a pleasure to finally meet me in person, and I’m so sure it was, really—and he was off to buy his book on Vampires or whatever he had actually been there for. Paranoia said he was off turn into a snake to stalk us, but some part of my introspection piped up enough to say that my head should be exploding but it was not.

I knit my brows together while I tried to work out why that was— recalled something about calling it a plothole before the light, but those don’t exist in real life. Life doesn’t have a plot to have holes; it has problems that have solutions, which I should be seeing about now. Quirrell was wearing his turban, so it could be possible that Voldemort wasn’t at the moment strong enough to be felt, but they had been reaching for other horcrux in an effort to ensure they all still remained, on the off chance some were destroyed while he was dead. It would have explained the headache, but that could also have been purely a happenstance pang of magic due to newly awakened—well, more so newly tapped—magic potential in myself being in proximity to other powerful magic users. Is that how it could work? Maybe my own para—

“You alright there ‘arry?” After I removed myself from the ceiling, having shot straight upward with a yelp of surprise at the half giant’s attempt to check on me. Hagrid tried again to talk, large hands hovering in my direction, seemingly wary of if I would accept a comforting pat. “Woah there, you don’t need ta be so jumpy, you’ve got me with ya, remember!”

“No, yes, I know I’m fine I just…” I looked around at the few people inside, including Tom who waved with a look of concern, and back to Hagrid. He raised a furry eyebrow while I waved my hands in circles in front of me at everything.

“All of this is a lot? Also does this mean I wasn’t in London? Because I thought I ran pretty far and I was at least 98% sure I was in London. But I saw a sign on the way in that said London and I am now very upset about my directional capabilities and I want to know if that’s important to being a wizard.” I paused after my voice started speeding up and running away on me. Adjusting my spectacles to peer at him, eyes wide as he covered his mouth with a large knuckle while he was listened to me continue with my hands clasped together. “Because, Hagrid, if I have to tell an owl where to go, with details, to send a letter, that owl is going nowhere fast. In fact, it may end up in Africa before it ends up in Scotland, though I have absolutely no idea why I would ever need to send post to Scotland.”

“Harry.” He grinned wider than I ever thought I would see someone be capable of, especially while listening to me go on about owl navigation, and then started chuckling. “I’m thinkin’ you’ll do jus’ fine. But, yea, we’re in London now. All ya need to worry about right now, though, is us gettin’ after them supplies on your letter.”

This is the point where, apparently, just a little, I stalled out in the face region. Around the eyes where someone could tell I had just worked through the fact that while, logically, I was aware Harry James Potter maintains a large sum of money that would frankly be disgusting to even think about counting, I was also used to being poor. Before The Green Light, having more than a few dollars at a time to my name was a rare occurrence and the times it happened were few and far between. While I couldn’t remember how rare, or how long that was—headaches—I knew it was long enough that when I was living in the cupboard and on what was left over from meals, I wasn’t too surprised by it.

Soon though, soon I would have enough money that I, Harry James Potter, would never go hungry again—but would it still be there if I had to keep paying for uniforms and ingredients and books and quills and—

I was brought out of my haze of money paralysis by Hagrid waving his hand in front of my face—more of a wiggle motion, given the short span to him, really—and repeating my name a few times in a concerned tone, before I shook my head and put my hands to my face. On one hand I was still processing that I was going to have money, on the other I had to pretend that I didn’t know that and not vibrate my way out of the chair like any other broke person.

“Hagrid,” He leaned closer to me with, what I presumed to be a worried expression. It was hard to tell with all the hair. “I don’t have any money.”

“Harry, I’ve told you, your family—”

“I’m 11 years old!” I said it in a frustrated tone and did my best to look annoyed with life. I hopped a seat over to sit closer, lowering my voice and pulled at my hair. “I don’t know how magic people do things, but they don’t just give kids money! What should I say to a bank? ‘I’m a poor orphan, but I happen to be Harry Potter, please give me enough to afford really fancy school supplies?”

“Harry.” The giant hand was yet again on my shoulder and I was not entirely sure when that was going to be comforting. Probably when I got used to it and wasn’t having an anxiety attack over something with silver on it being required. “I understand, take some breaths, right?”

I gave him a skeptical glance, but complied.

“Don’t worry, I guarantee you can afford yer supplies with plenty extra. I’ll even get ya an owl fer yer birthday. Do ya like owls? I bet you will—they got all kinds in the shop. All colors except tangerine, though I bet that can be arranged, if ye want! Maybe some sweets after, too, the less sat on kind!” He was trying, in his own way. Bless his socks. His large, large, half-giant socks.

Honestly, for me going at this as acting, this was doing more for my anxieties of trying to plan around things and thinking about the years of hand-me-downs, the crap bargain supplies bought with couch change Petunia didn’t know about—soon destroyed by Dudley—and the paying other people to let me use their books so I didn’t have to bring things home. Even before The Green I had similar issues, but thinking about that hurt my head.

I let out a heavy sigh and nodded, rubbing my face.

“Sorry, I… Petunia never let me get new things for school and if I did get anything it was Dudley’s or he ruined it, so I’m just…” I made a face and gestured, hoping he’d understand. “Overwhelmed, and I read that you need all these nice things…”

A nod from his bushy head sent all his hair flying this way and that before settling back into place. Even in the face of great anxiety, I will find comfort in the sheer amount of volume that is Hagrids’ hair.

“Harry Potter, I swear to ya, them Dursleys will never lay one more finger on you or anything you own once you set foot inside’a Hogwarts and I have a good long talk with Dumbledor. I promise you that.”

There was a good, deep, sincere fire to that sentence that I could trust, even if I knew not a single thing would change. I forced a smile on and nodded.

“Thanks, Hagrid.”

“Anything for you, ‘arry!” He grinned back and clapped me on the back, nearly sending me spilling out of the chair. “Now, lemme show you what we came here to see!”

* * *

Diagon Ally was much more impressive than anything that could be described in a book or on a television screen, sending a particularly excited and electric feeling through my head.

Primarily because there were minor enchantments or whatsoever on some objects hanging from displays that had you momentarily enamored with them in a passing way so as to make you pause to take a look at the rest of the display. Unfortunately, these were on the more drab items—thankfully for me, I am very easily entertained by magical anything and the first stand to do so smelled something similar to a yeast infection Dudley had managed to get in his armpit once. I was mostly interested because I was unaware something aside of his laundry could smell that way.

It was a display of ointments for skin blemishes that promised to remove wrinkles in a ‘safe and Ministry Compliant’ way. Several of the bottles had moving images of weathered witches applying the creams and becoming young girls again, others older men taking tonics and becoming spry. One looked like a packet of powder that you applied via puff to your cheeks and they became so tight that you physically could not have wrinkles, side effects being that you also looked like you had a, as the package put it: ‘enchanting smile’. I thought it looked more like the model for the packaging had discovered the recipe for the Jokers gas by mistake and the proprietor was selling it for beauty purposes, though I was reasonably sure that did cause wrinkles, but those could be worked on by the other products.

I was going to keep poking through the stand to see if they had any cream that made you look like you were constantly holding a frog in your mouth, or perhaps semi-permanently removed the oil from your hair, in the event I was given the chance to get one in on someone my dreams called Snape, but I was overruled by Hagrid. Well, until I found the one that smelled like yeast, which turned out to be a potion that made your skin glow like fresh baked bread and the label skirted around every chance to say how or why. Hagrid gently pushed me along the road at this point because I was very interested in asking the proprietor how they came to this formula and in what manner was Ministry non-compliant before and how long it took them to get there.

There were questions that occurred to me, that it’s just part of my nature, I explained. Hagrid pointed out that people may not take it as kindly as I might.

However, as we passed many a shop, once I looked past the standard star-striking wonder, more questions popped up that only came to pass once I noticed the general run of the mill stock. This is probably due to the fact that I generally used to shop like an old woman and remark upon said shopping as if I had been paid to do stand-up upon said shopping. Doing grocery runs for Ms. Figg while she chatted with cashiers and occasionally took me antiquing was a great benefit, honestly.

Harry James Potter, is a simple man. I have simple pleasures and interests and those interests are now: where does the water in a never-ending water fountain go once it’s down the drain, Hagrid. Does an ever-flowing fountain pen pull from a giant vat of ink somewhere, and would it still work if the place supplying it went out of business? Would it be able to be filled in the regular way then, or would the ink go all the way back to the vat and not do much good?

He was patient enough to answer as much as he could before admitting that some of my questions would just have to wait until I was at Hogwarts, and I was fine with that for the most part. I had mostly been asking out of a desire to focus on literally anything besides the throng of people crowding along the street.

I wondered idly if any of the shopkeepers had bothered inventing anti-smudging spells for their shop windows considering all the noses pressed to the broom shop and some of the other places that seemed to have gathered crowds of children as we passed them.

However, like the magpie I have always been and forever will be, I was drawn to what I assume counted as a supply shop. It’s front window was stocked with glittering crystals and what I could feel in my head were jasper and agate in stands. Hagrid saw me drifting from his side and guided me gently back on track. I am not proud to admit I made more than a token effort to go back to the shiny window.

He let out a laugh loud enough to get the attention of most the street when he caught the fact I was pouting.

“Not so fast, Harry! Gotta get yer money and supplies for first year, first, right?”

“I know, but shiny….” I didn’t whine. Nope. The boy who lived does not whine. He also does not get laughed at by a half giant that is leading him to an equally giant bank. Nope.

* * *

The shiny was outshone by Gringotts. In so far as white stone and weathered metal is shiny and aesthetically pleasing. The whole building was impressive—bronze, marble or granite or some other impressive and foreboding white rock walls towering over everything… even the goblin standing guard outside seemed impressive. For being smaller than a malnourished preteen, he cut an imposing figure in his guards—I assumed that’s what it was, unless Gringotts had a doorman for the drama of it all—uniform, dark beard styled to a point on his face and his limbs settled in a firm way that radiated professionalism. This was probably colored by the fact I had never seen someone who was a goblin before, and I kicked myself for thinking he was odd.

Honestly i imagined that the first goblin to see a human must have looked at them and went ‘my god, what’s he gotten stuck in, poor fellows been stretched out’ and been rather confused. Maybe they knew we were traipsing about and just sort of ignored us for a while. I did rather like the idea of the goblins and other magical beings glancing up from their daily lives occasionally to see if humanity had blown itself up yet.

I was in the middle of this reflection while Hagrid lead me into the middle of the hustle and bustle of the bank, causing me to run into no less than 10 different people, a rope divider, Hagrid himself, and almost a potted plant.

Smoothest Potter to ever live, present and accounted for.

The actual getting of the money wasn’t the difficult part. No, I really enjoyed that because I experienced a roller coaster that had money belonging to me at the end, which, really, is the best possible version of a roller coaster. I imagine the feeling that coursed through my chest at the scene of the vault—my vault—overflowing in gold and other treasures was what most people imagine unearthing pirate treasure felt like. Only this was infinitely less likely to be cursed in some manner.

The vault Hagrid had to access wasn’t a problem either, though I did in all honesty try my best to sense some strange power from it to fit in with the strange tingle seeing it sent up my spine. I couldn’t, aside from an intense feeling of motion sickness from Hagrid and a sort of bemused glee from Griphook about said motion sickness. Nor was the trolley ride back up a problem either, even while Hagrid was taking a breather against a wall.

What was the difficult part was me trying to mess with things by asking questions because I am not and have never been one to leave things where they lay. This, however, is very difficult when you have absolutely no idea how to interact with people, let alone a group of magical people who would really rather you be done in the fastest amount of time possible, thank you very much.

His job of escorting us done, and the cart back on surface level, Griphook had handed me the key to my vault and begun to walk off to wherever the bank employees go when not dealing with wizards and witches. Possibly to a break room with an employee of the month wall, a hang in there kitty poster, and a tea kettle somewhere, and something to take the edge off of working in customer service, or to another client; who knows.

Hagrid was poised to sweep me from the bank, and to take my key into his coat of infinite pockets for safe keeping, but I pushed the key into my pocket and make the universal ‘child that has a question but does not want to yell’ sound.

“Hagrid, I actually wanted to ask them something about my account… so I’ll know, and feel better.” Hagrid looked like he was about to protest, but nodded and headed to a nearby bench, gesturing quickly after the retreating goblin. I jogged a little to catch up with Griphook, and I was deeply proud that I managed without running into something and caught his attention.

He paused and turned around with an expertly swept away sour expression. Ah, public relations.

“Excuse me Mr. Griphook? Can I ask you a question about my vault?” The best part about the acting like a nervous little boy here was that it was only about 10% acting. “I don’t… I don’t really know how these things work.”

“What would you like to know, Mr. Potter.” Less a question and more of a clipped scripted response the likes of which heard in every shop and venue from every hired person ever. Hagrid had taken his seat on one of the benches a little ways off and the following sound of grinding stone earned a withering glance from some nearby goblins. He sheepishly waved and started fanning himself a bit.

“Is there a way to make sure no one else can get into my account?” At this his eyebrow raised and his expression just up and soured. Probably a better way to word that.

“There is no place on earth more secure than Gringotts, Mr. Potter.”

“Yes, I- I saw!” I nodded vigorously and then shook my head. “I mean, I’ve never had to know about these things. I came here with someone today, but in the future I may need to come with someone else. If someone got hold of my key and said they had permission because they were taking care of me, would they be able to get in? Is that something that could happen? Is there a magical alert that I would receive, or is that just something you take care of internally? Or if someone said they were related and got my key, but I didn’t know, would they be able to get in? If I was in the hospital and someone came on my behalf, would they have access so things are handled? I’m not doubting the bank, I trust that you can do a really good job of protecting my money, I’m just saying that I’ve never personally done business here and I don’t know the policies and I think you can explain them. That’s why I’m asking. Sorry.”

I waited anxiously while Griphook processed this series of very rapid, possibly paranoid ramblings coming from an 11 year old wizard. He seemed to come to a conclusion after a moment and nod, holding out his hand.

“If you will hand over your key, I can file for a charm to be laid onto it so you must physically be present to enter into your vault. I will also update the terms of your account to reflect your concerns. If an individual does not have your express permission, willingly given, they cannot enter your vault and retrieve an item. If you give permission and they have your key, however, they will be able to enter and use it within reason. All possible security… issues… are handled by the bank. If you have concerns in the future, Mr. Potter, ensure that you bring them to the bank immediately.” After I handed over the heavy key, he nodded and gestured over to where Hagrid sat, still looking more green than his usual color. The goblin seemed fine with the fact he was sick, not so fine with the fact he was looking to be sick on the floor. “We can alert you when the process is complete.”

Griphook also didn’t look like he expected me to break into a wide, honestly grateful grin and shake his hand. Considering that the impression I had been given of the man was that he was rather bitter toward Wizards for some valid reasons I didn’t know and wasn’t particularly a nice man, I could imagine this was throwing him for more loops than were in the track downstairs. Alright, maybe not that many loops, but he did seem bemused about it.

“Thank you, honestly, so much.” I may have shaken him a bit too hard, but it is very difficult to articulate the words ‘you just made me not want to scream about money’ without saying that. After letting him go, I ran over to Hagrid to make sure he was alright and gave him a gentle pat on the arm. Honestly, I could slug him and it would probably come across as a gentle pat, but I would never. We were friends now, after all.

“You holding up alright over here, Hagrid?”

I earned a sidelong look only a man recovering from motion sickness can give, along with a nod and a gesture to head outside. “I hate them carts. Glad yer seemin’ more peppy after, though. Think I need some air, myself.”

I grinned up at him as we headed back down the lines of shops, mindful to keep a hand over my money as we moved through the crowd.

“I just feel better knowing I can feed the owl you’re getting me. You don’t have to though, I think I could probably afford a whole house just for owls. And whatever magic owls eat. Is it different than normal owl food? I’m not going to have to find magic owl treats, am I?”

He let out a hearty laugh, followed immediately with a groan, tipping a bit to the side. I then made the horrible mistake of trying to physically support a half giant under one side. Bad idea, good for relationships, bad for the lower back. Mercifully, he regained his balance and gave me another winding pat to the back.

“Harry, I’m glad yer feelin’ better, but I think I need to nip back to the Leaky Cauldron for a bit.” He sounded properly upset with himself, especially after I sounded so excited about going to get an owl, and all the questions I could tell he wanted to answer for me. “It won’ take too long, I’m thinkin’ I jus need a couple minute lie down an’ we’ll go get tha owl. Get all yer questions squared off.”

On one hand I would have been entirely be for following him back to the Leaky Cauldron, because he was my friend and he looked like motion sickness was the only weakness he had. On the other, school supplies, an intense feeling of important events in another direction, and also shiny objects to acquire after said supplies.

I gave him another gentle pat on the arm with my free hand.

“It’s alright Hagrid, I can explore some and maybe get my uniform while you rest up. Besides, a fitting for something should take a while, right?”

“Well… if you’re sure…” He paused when he realized my grip on my money—in a bag that was then shoved really deep in my pocket— so hard that my arm was tense. “Harry, no one’s gonna steal it off you.”

“Habit, sorry.” I relaxed for his benefit, but my hand stayed in the pocket, palm over the opening of the bag. He sighed and shook his head, giving me one more pat on the back that knocked the air clear out of me.

“Just remember: You know where to find me if somethin’ happens before I find you.”

“Yup! Just try to feel better.”

He trundled off, turning occasionally to wave at me reassuringly. Once he turned the corner, I turned back to the sprawl of shops and fellow children buying things. And just like that I was left to my own devices in a very magical place with very magical money and very, very poor impulse control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, between 2018 being 2018 and being in and out of the ER, it took a bit to write this out. I am so sorry guys.   
> If there's Weirdness it's because it was half written in april of 2018 and its now january 2019


End file.
